


de-pluralize our casualties

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternative Timeline, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Unhappy Ending, background Melanie/Georgie - Freeform, brief cows but not a good cows fic lol, canon typical self mutilation, post 159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: It’s refreshing, in a way. Starting over from scratch. Leaving everything old behind. Everything contaminated by their past abandoned and destroyed; just them and whatever they can hold in their suitcases. Martin’s car.Jon rolls down the passenger side window and sticks his face out, just slightly. It’s snowing, the road crunchy and squeaky under the tires as Martin backs out of the driveway, and Jon smiles into the wind.Fresh start. Keys in his lap. Martin on his right, humming a little song as he drives.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 56
Kudos: 222





	de-pluralize our casualties

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from night windows by the weakerthans 
> 
> canon typical self mutilation is that they blind jon. the process and physical recovery are described VERY vaguely but it is implied that he is chemically blinded (likely bleach? idk). 
> 
> i hope this is hmm... respectful. do feel free to call me out if anything here comes across as ableist. jon IS upset by his loss of vision initially which is hm. hopefully the fact that being blind is in no way life ending or a tragedy comes across okay here. melanie is canonically okay with it almost immediately, but jon's feelings are delved into in way more depth and detail and theyre def influenced by the fact that i personally am actually really scared of eye trauma related stuff. idk

Jon doesn’t say anything when he makes up his mind. He doesn’t have to.

He’s slumped over on the couch, his body barely holding itself up. Like a bag of rocks. Lumpy potatoes in a burlap sack. On the coffee table he has an assortment of chemicals he’s scoured from around the cabin – kitchen surface cleaning spray. Oven cleaning liquid. Bleach. Rubbing alcohol. Bathroom cleaning spray. Funny how many different chemicals a house can hold. Household. Ha.

“Hey,” Martin whispers. 

“Hey,” says Jon. His voice is wet and hollow. Martin sits down next to him, his weight settling on the cushion. Comforting. 

Jon leans forward, closes his fingers around a spray bottle, and draws a shuddery breath. Martin puts his head on his shoulder, and Jon leans backwards slowly until his back makes contact with the backrest. He’s still got the bottle in his hand. It’s shaking, the hand, just a little bit, and Martin carefully folds his hand over Jon’s. 

Martin wants to ask “have you thought this through.” He wants to ask “are you sure.” Jon can feel the words wanting to come out of his mouth. 

“Do we have enough painkillers?” Martin asks instead. 

Jon chews on his lips. “I don’t know.” He’d almost prefer for it to hurt.

“It wouldn’t be a punishment,” Martin says softly. “It’s not a punishment. And you don’t have to do it.” It’s like he’s directly linked to Jon’s brain sometimes. Like he just knows what he’s thinking. Just naturally. No Eye, no Beholding, just Martin. Just Martin. Jon’s heart hurts.

(They both know he does have to do it, though, is the thing. They’re running out of time. Jon can feel something approaching. Something closing in on him.)

“Okay,” Jon says, “fine.”

Martin gets up from the couch. “I’m going to check.”

He bends down for just a second and kisses the top of Jon’s head. He smells like woodsmoke and laundry detergent.

–

What they have isn’t nearly enough, but Daisy does have enough alcohol to last them a year. Vodka. Whisky. Liqueur. Nothing top shelf, but a lot of it.

Mixing painkillers and alcohol isn’t exactly safe or a good idea but Jon doesn’t care. There’s so much he’s put his body through that this is barely a drop in a bucket, and alcohol is how they used to do this stuff, right? Can’t feel the pain so badly if you’re shitfaced? 

“Cheers,” says Jon through a mouthful of ibuprofen, gesturing at Martin with his full glass. Martin looks like he’s trying to smile. He doesn’t quite succeed.

–

Jon can’t cry after. He can’t cry at all. He can’t risk washing away the chemicals. He just can’t. Even after Martin gently rinses them out to get him ready for the bandages he holds back his tears, determined, afraid. He’s scared it’s going to hurt. It probably is.

Martin carefully wraps sterile bandages around his head, eyes covered with gauze, combs his fingers through his hair.

–

The presence of the Eye no longer weighs down on him when he wakes up. What does weigh down on him is the worst hangover he’s had in years. He thinks he’s going to throw up, for a minute, but the nausea passes eventually. His head hurts.

The price of no longer wearing the Watcher’s Crown, he supposes. Win some, lose some. 

“Hey,” says Martin. 

Jon turns his head reflexively, and then Martin’s cool hand is on his cheek, petting over the rough stubble. He can sense his other hand hovering over the bandages over his right eye for a second before it settles on his forehead, under his hair. “Hey,” says Jon. His voice comes out rough. 

“How do you feel?” asks Martin. He sounds like he’s trying to hide how nervous he is. This tone of forced neutrality. Jon wishes he could see his face. He wishes he could see how his face mirrors the tone of his voice, how he’s looking at him, how he looks with sleep still fresh in his hair. 

“My head is killing me.” Martin makes a sympathetic noise. “Otherwise, uh. Hard to say? Mostly I just feel pain.”

“Do you feel hungry?” 

“No,” he says. “I just feel – normal. Normal pain. I don’t feel the Eye. I can’t _Know_. I think –” shuddery breath, “– I think we did it, Martin.”

Jon is almost sure Martin smiles at this. He wishes he could see it.

–

The first few days he lies in bed and feels horrible.

His eyes hurt. His head hurts. His chest hurts. Martin brings him food and water and makes sure he eats and drinks, and he lies down next to him, wraps his arms around his middle, and it’s so weird that the first day he’d felt almost fine because now he feels like he’s in the active process of dying. The loss of his vision is finally registering as a finality. It’s done. It’s not like being blind is even close to the worst thing that could happen to him, it’s just –

He never realized how much he liked just looking at Martin. Watching him. Seeing him. Witnessing him, his eyes, his movement, the curve of his jaw, the way his smile moved his face. Well, not just Martin, but it’s – mostly it’s Martin. He lies in bed and feels empty.

Martin eventually drags him into the shower. He feels limp and pliable, like wet clay, like he can’t move himself. He feels like he’s in mourning. Martin would probably tell him that he is, or that he’s allowed to. He doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t want to feel like he’s allowed to. This was something he had to do. Something he was morally obligated to do.

Martin turns on the water. The water here smells faintly metallic when it first comes out. Old pipes and all that.

“I think we can take this off for the shower. We shouldn’t get it wet,” he says, fingers brushing the bandages on the side of his head, and Jon shrugs. “Okay,” Martin says, softly, and unwraps them, gentle as ever.

Jon can feel the air touch his eyes. He misses the pressure immediately. “Am I allowed to close my eyes,” he asks, suddenly numb. 

“I don’t know.” Martin sounds equally helpless. “I think so?” 

Jon closes them. It’s much less scary that way. Martin helps him undress and then guides him in, and he thinks he should feel more naked, more vulnerable, but it’s Martin, and he just feels – there. He feels like he exists. Nothing more than that. Martin lets go of him for a second just to get in the tub with him, behind him, and Jon realizes numbly that he’s still wearing his t-shirt, the wet fabric touching his back.

Martin gently grabs his shoulders and guides him down. Jon sits in the tub and cries, finally, finally. It hurts, just like he’d thought it would. Martin pretends he doesn’t notice. He puts his hands in his hair and starts shampooing it.

–

Martin had said “it’s going to get better. You’ll feel better.”

Jon hadn’t believed him, lying there in the tub or on the floor or in the bed, numb and empty and unable to think about anything but the splitting ache in his bones, the horrible numb pain in his eyes, but two weeks in he manages to catch the hope of that by the tip of its tail and refuses to let go.

–

He hadn’t needed to eat, necessarily, before. He does now. He’s starting to realize he was being kept alive by the Eye, like it was a hand holding him above water by the scruff of his neck, the only thing keeping him from drowning. Now he’s been cut loose and he has to swim himself back to the shore.

There’s goods and there’s bads to that. He feels weak in a nonspecific way, but he’s learning to like food again. Martin cooks for him. There’s something so tenderly domestic about it that he almost wants to cry, sometimes. Something vulnerable about it. Trusting him to take care of him like this – cook him food. Make sure he eats it. Caretaking on the most basic of levels. 

Like now –

Martin is making cooking sounds directly in front of him. He listens. He approximates. A few meters between them. Martin is probably right in front of the stove. There’s the sound of food frying in generous oil. 

“Bacon,” Martin says conversationally, “eggs, um, I think I’m going to use some leftover chips and make hash browns. I’ll fry some tomatoes after I’m done with the eggs and bacon. We need to go to the store soon, we don’t have sausages. Might have beans. I’ll have to check, but I think we might’ve finished the last of them yesterday.”

“Sounds good,” says Jon softly. “Can I help?” 

Martin hums. “Want to toast some bread?”

Jon gets up from his chair. Good for him to get used to doing things again, he knows. He doesn’t want to wallow in this. It’s done. This is his life now. It’s not like he’s dead. He can adjust. He knows that, and he’s determined. 

It’s just weird sometimes – if he hadn’t done it he could be cooking with Martin, two frying pans out, him working on the hash browns while Martin focuses on the bacon and eggs, working in tandem side by side, getting everything done at the same time, no soggy cold bacon or burnt eggs. But then again, if he hadn’t done it he wouldn’t need to eat. They wouldn’t be making breakfast. 

He feels his way to the kitchen counter, hands brushing surfaces. Forward. Left. Bag of bread against the side of the refrigerator. They’re working so hard on consistently keeping the floors clear, everything accessible. Easier for him to learn where to go. It isn’t as hard as he’d feared. He’s walked around this house enough that he knows where things are. He’d been almost surprised how easy it’s been. 

He pops two slices into the toaster. “How many?” he asks. 

“Four?” 

“Okay,” agrees Jon. He waits for the first two to be done by the toaster. Martin continues to make cooking noises to the right of him, and Jon turns to lean against the counter so that he’s facing Martin again. 

“Hi,” says Martin. 

“Hi.”

He can feel Martin fidget in front of him, nervous energy. “Walking to you,” he says softly, and Jon can feel the air move, and then Martin is wrapping his arms around him, gentle. He smells like bacon and olive oil. Jon sinks into his arms slowly. “Did you take the bacon out yet?” Jon sighs. 

“No,” says Martin, reaching up and into one of the cabinets behind and above Jon with one hand. He takes out a stack of plates. One gets placed next to the toaster. 

“Smells like it’s about to burn.”

Martin pulls away with a disapproving sound. The bread slices pop out of the toaster. Jon grabs them, feels them with his hand to check the doneness. “These look good?” he asks. 

“Do they feel good?”

Jon feels them again. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” says Martin. There’s the sound of metal scraping as he moves the bacon and the eggs onto the plates. Something else gets dropped into the hot frying pan. The smell of salt and starch fills the kitchen. Potatoes. Jon puts the toasted bread on the plate and puts two more pieces into the toaster. 

“Do we have more bread?” he asks. “I can’t feel more than three slices.” 

“Um, I’ll check the freezer later. If not I’ll add that to the shopping list.” 

Jon hums gently. The potatoes heat fast, and Martin is scooping them onto their plates when the two last slices pop out. “Want these on the table?”

“Yeah,” agrees Martin, “that works.”

Jon makes his way to the dining table. The plate of toast goes in the middle. Jon sits down in his chair.

“On your left,” says Martin, and then there’s the sound of plates being set down, Martin’s arm brushing against Jon’s. “You’ve got a fried egg on the left, um, around nine o’clock, hash browns almost the whole bottom half, bacon on the right around three o’clock, and then five slices of fried tomatoes on the top between the bacon and the egg.”

“Thank you,” Jon says quietly. 

“D’you want butter or jam on your toast?”

“I can do it myself,” Jon says. 

“Oh,” says Martin, suddenly flustered. “Yeah, okay, you can do yours first.”

“I love you.” The words rip themselves out of his mouth before Jon can even try to stop them. 

“Oh,” says Martin, “I love you too,” and Jon can feel himself blush all the way up to his ears.

–

“You can still kiss me,” Jon says. He’s eating a tangerine and the juice is dripping down his hands, down his wrists, down his arms. He pauses for a second to lick a long line up his arm towards his wrist. He thinks he gets all of it but he can’t be sure. Tricky thing, fruit juice.

Martin is doing the dishes, and Jon’s words don’t even make him pause. “Alright,” he says over the sound of dish brush against chipped nonstick skillet, “right now?”

Jon makes a displeased noise. “I guess,” he says. “I meant in general.”

“I’ve _been_ kissing you, Jon,” Martin reminds him. 

And he’s right – there’s been so many kisses; on his forehead, on his cheeks, on his neck, the top of his head, his hands, his wrists, his shoulders. The corners of his mouth. His eyelids. Eyebrows.

“You know what I mean,” Jon says. 

“What? You miss making out?”

Jon doesn’t answer. He pulls a piece out of the fruit delicately.

“Oh,” says Martin, “you _do_ miss that. Sorry, love.”

“Just kissing, in general,” Jon corrects, “but yes, that was nice as well.”

Martin continues making washing up noises. Jon takes a bite of his tangerine like it’s an apple. “I’ll be here,” he says, “waiting.”

Martin laughs. “Okay, I’ll be fast.”

And he is, and finally he turns the water off and sets the frying pan down, and then he’s coming over, smelling of apple Fairy dish soap, and Jon lets the hand with the tangerine in it fall onto the table, mouth opening gently, and then Martin is kissing him, sweet and soft, just like he always would. Like he always does.

–

When the bandages have been off for a week Jon finally feels okay going outside.

“Smells good,” he says immediately as soon as they step out. “Did it rain?”

“It snowed,” says Martin, delighted. 

“Snow on the ground?” asks Jon.

“No,” replies Martin, “some on the grass. Just a little bit. Mostly just looks like it’s frosted over. Um. Shouldn't be icy.” 

Jon nods. He reaches out and Martin offers him his arm. Jon grasps a firm hold of it, and then, after thinking for a second, reaches his other hand across himself to take Martin’s hand. 

“Is this going to work?” Martin asks, slightly amused.

Jon pouts. “Maybe,” he says. 

They make it maybe a hundred meters before Jon goes “wait, wait,” and Martin comes to an obedient stop. “Yes?” he asks pleasantly. Jon lets go of his hand with a pout and Martin grabs him by the shoulder, gentle, and kisses him on the forehead. 

The winding path down towards the village feels familiar as ever. Jon can’t see the trees but Martin tells him they’re still there, still covering them, shielding them from the sky and whatever might come down from it. He likes that. A little canopy against the ceiling of their little world. 

“Here,” says Martin, and then he comes to a stop. “The fence is right in front of you. Remember where the electric wire goes?” 

“Under the top wooden plank,” says Jon and bends his top half forward until he can rest his elbows on the fence. “Where are they?” 

Martin hums for a second. “Kind of far away? Should we whistle or something? I don’t know if they saw us.”

Jon whistles, low, steady. Martin laughs, and then goes “one of them lifted their head.”

Jon smiles at this. It’s so good to make Martin laugh. They deserve this – this happiness, this joy, this, just, this laughing and happiness without the fear and the anger and the misery. Martin puts a hand over one of Jon’s and gives it a squeeze.

It’s nice. The air is crisp but not too cold, and the wind isn’t too harsh. Jon feels warm and safe in his thick coat and woolen hat. There’s the sound of cow hooves walking across the field towards them, and Jon goes “which one is it?” and Martin says “oh. There’s a new cow. Oh my god.”

Jon gasps gently. “What does it look like?” 

Martin presses in closer to him. “Highland, but this one is kind of more blonde? Yellow. Smaller than most of the others. Beautiful eyes. Jon, are you crying?” 

Jon brings a hand up to his face, but Martin is faster, thumb reaching to wipe away the single tear rolling down his cheek. “Oh,” Jon says, “I don’t know why. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Martin leans closer, closer, until he can kiss his face, just under his eye, lips gently touching the tender thin skin there. 

“Because you want to see?” Martin asks softly.

“No,” says Jon, immediately. “No. Because I’m so happy to be here. I’m so glad I’m here with you.”

–

“I texted Melanie,” Martin says as he enters the room, “They say hi. Melanie and Georgie, both of them.”

“Oh,” says Jon. “How are they?”

Martin sits down next to him, takes his feet into his lap. Jon makes a purring sound in his throat when Martin starts rubbing them absently. “They’re alright. Taking a trip next month. Paris.”

Jon wrinkles his nose. “Paris?”

Martin laughs. “You’re so rude. Yes, Paris. Anyway, I told them about what we, um, _did_ , and Melanie wants to meet up.”

Jon is quiet for a long minute. Seconds tick by. His head feels empty, suddenly. “Do you want to meet up with them?” Martin asks, finally. 

“Yes,” says Jon. Admitting it feels like releasing air he’s been holding in his lungs for too long. “Yes, yes I do.”

“They can be here next week,” Martin says.

Jon breathes out. In. Out. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

–

“It looks exactly what you’d think Daisy’s cabin would look like,” says Georgie to Melanie immediately.

She’s right. Jon wishes he could see their faces – Georgie reacting in real time, Melanie smug and wistful at the same time as she imagines the aesthetics of something decorated by Daisy. 

The house isn’t ugly, per se, but it could be described as _bare minimum_. Ascetic. There’s exposed brick wall everywhere and every piece of furniture is clearly secondhand. The dining chairs don’t match. The plastic tablecloth is faded and stained and positively _ugly_ , and the table itself isn’t any better. 

It’s functional. It does the job. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Jon,” says Melanie, “hi. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” says Jon. “Can’t believe it worked.” Martin, standing next to him, touches his arm lightly, and then leans against him, just a little. Just so that he knows he’s there. 

“Right?” says Melanie, “I mean, I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t thought it would work. Or I mean, I was kind of desperate, so even if I hadn’t had too much faith in it I would’ve probably done it anyway. But still.” 

“Right,” says Jon quietly. He wants to say a lot of things. He feels awkward and small, suddenly. Like there’s a script he should know but doesn’t. Some sort of an instruction manual to interacting with them. It feels like it’s been years since they last spoke.

“So,” says Georgie, “Daisy’s cabin, huh.”

She sounds amused. She didn’t really know Daisy that well, but Jon thinks she probably knows enough. Daisy with her guns and her anger and her hair that you could never describe as having a specific _cut_ as much as a chop. Butchering job. She’s always treated her belongings like meat. 

“We’re thinking eventually we would like to move into a real place,” Martin offers. 

“Oh,” says Georgie, “London?” She sounds genuinely interested. Jon thinks she is, probably. He remembers her. What she can be like. Sweet and kind and fierce and so _good_. He’s not really holding onto a hope of her being like that with him again. Still feels nice to have the possibility open again.

“Actually, um, we were kind of thinking of staying here?”

Melanie makes a noise in her throat at this like it’s interesting. “You don’t want to be close to everyone?”

Jon speaks this time. “I don’t want to be close to the institute. Or Elias.” 

He feels selfish about this. He feels like there’s a job he has to finish, somehow – like this isn’t over, yet. Like there’s another demon he needs to kill, another monster to shoot an arrow through. It’s dangerous, this feeling. 

“And we have a car,” offers Martin. “Not like we’re totally cut off from the rest of the world.” 

“Okay,” says Georgie, easily. “So what do you guys do to pass the time here?”

And Jon _knows_ – regular knows, not Eye-Knows – that Martin cracks a wide grin at this, and then he’s dislodging himself from Jon’s loose grasp and crossing the floor into the living room, finding the stack of board games they keep there, picking out the trivia ones. Jon can identify the Trivial Pursuit by the sound it makes when Martin drops it on the dining table. 

“Trivial Pursuit,” says Martin. Melanie and Georgie make a semi-delighted sound almost in unison. Jon smiles. Good to see them happy. He thinks they’re probably good together. They certainly sound that way.

“Georgie, make sure he doesn’t cheat,” says Jon lightly after they’ve settled down around the coffee table. “He’s been reading both of our cards and no one’s been checking him for weeks.”

Melanie laughs, and Georgie snickers as well, and then she says “he just blushed so hard. Jon, he’s totally been cheating.”

–

Martin collects the keys alone.

He’d gotten a job with a local charity – something about children in care. Something sweet and lovely and helpful. Jon’s going to figure out the specifics eventually, he’s sure, and he feels bad for not having already, but he still feels kind of lightheaded, sometimes – like his brain is resistant to clinging to information, to knowledge, to facts. Martin tells him things and sometimes they just don’t take. His brain lets go of them immediately. He doesn’t know if he likes this better or worse than when he had everything permanently lodged in his brain. 

Jon thinks about getting a job as well but there’s this ringing in the back of his head about it, this sense of _what if,_ this fear of something he doesn’t want to think about. He feels okay, here, inside, confined. This safety of being mostly isolated, just Martin and his arms and his laugh and his solid, warm body. It’s scary, being expected to interact with people again. To interact with them alone.

“You don’t have to get a job, you know,” Martin had said softly. “We can afford this with just my pay.”

And he’s right. Rent here is so much cheaper than it is in London. They’d known it, sure, but it’s still strange. He’d paid the same for his shitty six hundred year old one bedroom flat they’re paying for this two bedroom house. Could’ve gotten something for much cheaper, sure, but this one had a full kitchen renovation just a few years prior, and they’d fallen in love with it, that and the half garden that’d come with it. 

(“There’s enough room for a little vegetable garden,” Martin had whispered into his ear while they’d walked through it. The want in that sentence had been blatantly obvious.)

Jon feels bad, regardless. He doesn’t want to be a burden. He doesn’t want to be a complication. He doesn’t want to _depend_ on Martin, not like this. “Maybe I can do something remotely,” he’d said. “Maybe I’ll start a podcast.”

He doesn’t know if it’d made Martin smile but he hopes it did. 

So – they sign the lease together, but Martin collects the keys alone. Jon packs their belongings into whatever bags they brought with them while he’s gone, taking in the stuffy dusty air and the damp, mossy smell of the cabin. He thinks about everything they’d left in London, in their flats, surely already thrown out by their respective landlords. They should’ve asked someone to collect at least some of it. They just have their clothes and some other personal items. 

It’s refreshing, in a way. Starting over from scratch. Leaving everything old behind. Everything contaminated by their past abandoned and destroyed; just them and whatever they can hold in their suitcases. Martin’s car. 

Jon rolls down the passenger side window and sticks his face out, just slightly. It’s snowing, the road crunchy and squeaky under the tires as Martin backs out of the driveway, and Jon smiles into the wind.

Fresh start. Keys in his lap. Martin on his right, humming a little song as he drives them towards their new home.

–

The drive to the nearest Ikea is painfully long and boring. Martin makes sympathetic noises in response to his whining and pats his knee with his free hand whenever he doesn’t need it to drive. He’d been worried he would get more carsick, these days, not being able to see the road, but nothing’s changed that he can tell. It’s fine.

Martin leads him around the store, hands him utensils and chairs and frying pans and toasters and cushions and he feels them and Martin explains the colors and the descriptions and prices, and they collect a mountain of home goods. They take a break in the living room section, and Jon plops down on a couch. “Uncomfortable,” he grumbles. 

“Aw,” says Martin, “it looks nice.”

“Sit down,” commands Jon playfully. Martin does, and then he makes a disapproving noise as well. “I know,” Jon agrees. 

A bed frame. A mattress. Pillows. Bedding. “We should’ve just stolen Daisy’s,” Jon grumbles. Martin laughs, but he’s already loading the bed frame box into their warehouse cart. They’ll get a dresser later. Their bedroom has a shitty built in wardrobe Martin doesn’t like. 

Jon remembers hangers at the last second, and Martin disappears to find an armful. Jon stands by the cart with his eyes closed and listens. The sound of people talking. People walking and running. Cardboard boxes being moved. Martin comes back, squeezes his arm, kisses his cheek, then his nose, and then finally his mouth. Jon smiles into it.

They order their couch online. The car is full and Jon has to pull his seat forward enough that his knees are practically folded against his chest.

Back at their place Martin organizes the kitchen while Jon organizes the living room to the best of his ability. They have a rug. A little coffee table. A smooth, narrow console table they’re going to put a TV on eventually. Martin’s old record player, his stack of records. He sits on the rug cross legged, comfortable and warm in his pyjama bottoms and Martin’s sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Martin’s still making noise in the kitchen. 

He closes his eyes. Weird how comforting that still is.

Martin’s opened a window in the kitchen. The cool air drifts through the house. It smells like winter. It smells good. It smells ordinary and safe and normal.

–

Melanie and Georgie come by a few weeks later. The house is more filled up, now – they’ve got a couch, an armchair, some decorations. A dining room table and a set of chairs. A TV in the living room. It’s more than Jon had had at his old flat.

“Smells good,” says Melanie, taking off her shoes. 

“Thanks,” says Martin. “We made biscuits.”

Jon reaches out with one arm and Martin makes his way to him, wriggles his body into his side so that Jon’s arm wraps around his middle. He feels so safe. It’s exhilarating. He feels indulgent. Unapologetic.

“Jon’s thinking about starting a podcast,” Martin says, later, after they’ve settled around the dining table with glasses full of juice and plates full of biscuits. 

It feels awfully primary school of them. Them and all of their little friends hanging out after school, eating snacks, getting ready to do their homework. Jon doesn’t think he minds it. It’s domestic. 

Melanie, who’s just taken a bite of her biscuit chokes slightly. “A podcast? Jon?”

“Yes,” Jon says resentfully, “a podcast.”

“What about?” asks Georgie, ever the diplomat. It sounds like she’s crumbling her biscuit in her hands and then eating the little pieces. She probably is. Jon remembers her doing it every time he’s seen her eat a biscuit.

Jon hums reluctantly. “I don’t know.”

“Ghosts? Gonna join the ghost hunt gang?”

“No. I was thinking something less, um. Scary. Maybe gardening.”

“ _Gardening_?”

“Yes, Melanie, gardening –”

“Okay,” interrupts Martin, putting one hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon guesses the other one must be on Melanie’s. “Who wants to see our garden?” 

“Sure,” says Melanie flatly. Martin’s hand on Jon’s shoulder twitches. “Um,” he says. 

“Let’s go see the garden,” says Georgie, ignoring Melanie, who starts laughing. 

“I’m messing with you,” she says, and Martin says “oh, oh okay,” and Georgie laughs, too, sharply and then they get up and walk to the back door.

The garden is – there’s nothing there yet. Just a whole bunch of grass, and a whole bunch of snow. He’s been out there, figuring out the exact size and the shape of it, and it snowed earlier that day. Martin’s talking about their plans for it – the tomatoes, the potatoes, the kale. Lettuce. Spinach. Jon steps out onto the small deck. He gets his socks wet. 

“Hey,” says Georgie, softly. She reaches one arm towards him. Her hand settles on his shoulder, right on the middle point between his neck and the point of his shoulder.

“Hi,” he says. Martin keeps talking in the background. Soil, planting times. 

“I missed you,” says Georgie after a long second. She squeezes his shoulder gently. Jon shivers. He’s missed her too. “Me too,” he says quietly, and then, after a beat, “are you smiling?”

Georgie giggles. “Yeah,” she says, “you got a problem with that?” 

“No,” says Jon. He smiles as well. “I’m just glad.” 

Georgie gives his shoulder one last squeeze before slipping away from his personal space, reclaiming her spot next to Melanie. The snow under Jon’s feet is cold enough to numb his toes. He wiggles them slowly. It’s getting cliche, these feelings about snow, these feelings about normalcy. He doesn’t know if he’s going to ever get used to it. This freedom. This open love. This safety.

–

Martin spins him around the living room, furniture pushed to the sides of the room, fingers laced together, music playing soft in the background, both of them tipsy. Jon’s head is buzzing, his laugh easy and loose in his throat. He feels so full of love he’s shaky with it. Martin draws him closer, closer, spins him around in the spot, pushes him away, pulls him close again. Jon pulls his hand free and pushes his body against Martin’s, tilts his head up, and he leans down, easy, easy, and then he kisses him like it’s nothing, like it’s effortless, like he was made to do it –

–

There’s a cat that keeps appearing in the window.

Jon’s the first one to notice it. She meows loud enough that he hears her through the glass when he’s getting a glass of water. 

“Martin,” he calls out, “there’s a cat.”

There’s footsteps and then Martin’s presence materializes behind him. “Oh,” he says, “so cute.”

“Should we let it inside?”

“Maybe,” Martin says, “not sure it’s a good idea.”

Jon pouts, just slightly. “It’s cold out.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Martin says, and then he presses his face against Jon’s neck, just long enough for Jon to feel his smile. 

Martin opens the door. The cat slips in as soon as the door cracks open enough for her to fit through. “Calico,” says Martin, like he only now remembered to describe the cat, “oh, she’s so tiny.”

“Which color is that again?”

“White, black, ginger. Means she’s female. This one is mostly white. Some black. Lots of ginger. Black nose.”

Jon nods. He holds out a hand in the cat’s direction. She comes over and sniffs it. Her nose is cold and dry against his hand.

Martin sends a photo to Georgie. _Meow_ , texts Georgie back, and then _congrats on your new cat_ a few seconds later. Martin reads them out to Jon. 

The cat rubs her cold body against Jon’s legs and meows again. Jon pets her, and she starts purring almost immediately.

–

After the cat keeps appearing every day for a week straight they decide they need to do something about it. Surely someone misses her. There’s no collar, but they figure it’s possible she’s slipped out of it or that the owners just didn’t want to put one on her.

They take the cat to the vet and there’s no microchip but the vet is almost sure she’s an abandoned pet, and Martin starts to say “can we –” at the same time as Jon starts saying “let’s keep her.” 

There’s a pause and then Martin grabs his hand, and with a smile in his voice goes “yes, let’s.” 

They take her home. Martin texts Georgie who sends a string of cat emojis, and then a photo of her, Melanie, and the Admiral cuddled up on her bed. Martin describes the photo to the details of the pattern of their bedspread and Melanie’s new haircut and Jon smiles at him, the cat nestled in his lap, lazy, throaty purring sounds coming out of her. 

They name her Fox. Mischievous. She’s smart and unafraid to use it to her advantage, they’re learning. She likes crying like she’s been hurt until someone checks on her and then zooming out of that room and into a forbidden room, or onto the kitchen counter, or to drink from the bathroom drain. 

“Maybe we should’ve named her the Colonel,” Martin says. They’re piled up on the couch, legs tangled, Martin mostly on top of Jon, his weight comforting and safe and grounding. 

Jon snorts. “We should’ve.”

“Not too late,” Martin says, almost solemn enough for Jon to take him seriously.

“Fox the Colonel,” Jon says dreamily. Martin shifts slightly on top of him. 

“Sounds good,” he agrees. “Fox the Colonel.” 

From her spot on the floor Fox the Colonel chirps at them. Martin chirps back.

–

It’s so good for so long.

Cuddling on the couch. In bed. Martin lying on top of him worrying about squishing him, Jon going “no, it’s good, don’t move, don’t worry.” Martin making noises like he doesn’t quite believe him, Jon wrapping his arms around him to keep him right where he is. 

Cooking dinner together, Martin chopping vegetables while Jon stirs the meat on the frying pan. Martin hand feeding Jon oranges, kissing him between every bite, smiling into every kiss. Fox jumping onto counters and Martin picking her up and putting her back on the floor again. 

Jon thinks he’s never slept as well in his life. He rarely dreams, or – he knows he dreams. Logically. He just never remembers his dreams anymore. He wakes up to the sun shining through the dust dancing in the air, or Martin kissing him on the cheek, ready to leave for work. He mumbles “I love you,” and stays awake long enough for Martin to say it back. Fox makes a little chirping noise when he rolls back over, jostling her where she’s curled up at his feet.

It’s good. He’s happy. He’s so happy.

And then –

–

It’s a paper cut. Just a paper cut.

He slices open his finger on a piece of paper. The pain is immediate. The blood takes a few minutes to come out, and he hurries to put it under the tap, cursing under his breath. Rinse. Dry. Plaster. 

He takes a few minutes to find the plasters. By the time he’s unwrapped one he’s certain he’s going to need to rinse his finger again, but when he feels it the skin there is dry. Almost feels unbroken. He takes a sharp breath in through his nose. 

“You okay?” Martin calls from the bedroom. 

Jon leans on the counter with his whole weight, suddenly lightheaded. It’s fine. Just too small to bleed for long. Paper cuts are all hurt, no blood. It’s okay.

“Yeah,” he shouts back, “just got a paper cut.”

Sympathetically, “sorry!” 

Jon smiles, faintly. It’s fine. Just didn’t bleed much. He puts the plaster on. He doesn’t think about how it doesn’t even hurt anymore.

–

Actually it’s –

They’re out. He’d been feeling a little claustrophobic so he’d figured he might as well walk to meet Martin at his work so they could walk back together. He can do it fine, now, the streets are easy enough to navigate and he uses his GPS navigator app just in case, voice directions coming through his earbuds. 

It’s still cold, but March is getting warmer by the day. They’re forecasting a promising ten celsius all week. It’s all slush now. Getting warm. Martin’s counting days til he can start planting his tomatoes.

Martin grabs him by the shoulders when he comes out, Jon’s face already split into a grin by the time he’s close enough to touch, recognizing his presence by his smell and energy. Martin bends down and hovers his face by Jon’s for just a few seconds in question and Jon stands up on his toes to reach up to kiss him eagerly. 

He wonders how Martin’s coworkers see him – this scrawny, short man, dressed in too-big coats and big stompy boots. If they see him come wait by the door and point him out to Martin. Wonders what they call him in their heads. Has Martin told them his name? Who he is? Do they think he’s his husband, coming to pick him up a few times a week? 

(He thinks about it, sometimes. Husbands. That kind of stuff. He doesn’t say it, ever. It’s too soon. He thinks about it, and then he blushes, and Martin teases him, even if he can’t see the warmth blooming. He has his hands on his cheeks often enough that many times he can just feel him blush.)

So – they’re out. Jon holds onto his arm with one hand and Martin talks about his day, Jon tells him about his. It’s a good day. He can feel the sun on his skin every so often, but mostly it feels overcast. Smells like exhaust fumes and gravel. 

Jon settles into the gentle cadence of Martin’s words. Story about his coworkers. Someone’s having problems with their gas company. Someone else is mad because Scotrail keeps cancelling trains with no notice and they can’t get to their parents’ house. Comforting. So ordinary.

“We need cat food,” says Jon abruptly into the middle of a sentence. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Did we pass Tesco already?” 

“Coming up in a second,” Martin says, and moves them to the far right side of the sidewalk. 

It’s warm inside. Jon’s hot in his coat almost immediately. He thinks about digging out his lighter jacket when they get home. “Anything else?” Martin asks, grabbing a basket. 

“I don’t think so.”

They make their way to the pet food aisle and Martin loads a box of wet food pouches into the basket. Jon sticks his hand in the basket. “Is this salmon? She doesn’t like salmon.”

“Chicken,” says Martin, amusement in his voice. “I remember, Jon.” 

“Okay,” says Jon. He smiles as well. Silly. He likes caring about something this much, he thinks. 

And then he can feel his facial muscles work one by one as his smile fades involuntarily, in stages. 

“Jon?” questions Martin. It sounds like he’s very far away. Like he’s underwater. 

There’s something. A presence. A few aisles away. Jon almost wants to take in a deep breath through his nose, like he’s smelling for something. He feels like he’s in a trance, and there’s a sudden, deep flare of raw _hunger_ that shoots through him with no buildup. It knocks the breath out of him. 

Martin grabs him by the arm. “Jon?” 

Jon blinks. He feels like he’s been brought back too fast. He feels motion sick. 

“Yeah?”

“Where were you going?” Martin asks. 

“Nowhere?” 

Martin squeezes his arm, once, and then lets go. “You started walking away.”

“Oh.”

He hadn’t noticed. He reaches out with one hand and true, he can feel the shapes of the cans and jars on the opposite side of the aisle from where he’d been. It’s hard to approximate like this. He feels lightheaded. Maybe three or four steps diagonally from where he’d been standing. Like he’d been trying to walk through the shelves and then the wall.

Martin finds his hand with one of his, sets the basket down, feels his forehead with the other. “Are you feeling okay?” His hand retreats from his forehead, seemingly satisfied with his un-feverish state. 

“Light-headed,” Jon murmurs. “I feel weird. A little dizzy.”

Martin squeezes his hand, tight. “Let’s get out of here.” He sounds so worried. Jon wants so badly to lean against him, to feel held and comforted and loved and solid, but Martin lets go of his hand so Jon can grab a hold of his arm again. Jon grabs it. Martin stays still a few moments, and then he kisses Jon’s head, just lightly.

“Okay,” Martin says quietly, “let’s go.”

–

He doesn’t let himself understand what’d happened until later that night.

When he opens his mouth to tell Martin he starts crying instead.

–

It comes back in stages.

The Knowing. The compelling. 

Not his sight, though. He can Know. He can See. He can’t _see._

Jon fights it every step of the way, every stage, angry and upset, and every time his body fills with rage he wonders why he didn’t fight like this the first time. Maybe if he’d fought he would’ve been left alone. Maybe he would’ve been okay and they wouldn’t have had to do any of this. 

“I never started a podcast,” he says, the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, “I never started it.”

Martin wraps his arms around him and pulls him into his chest. His grasp is tight enough to almost knock the air out of Jon’s chest. He feels like he disappears into Martin’s chest, like this, engulfed by his presence, his body. 

He wishes Martin could eat him, or pull him into his chest cavity, swallow him whole and carry him around inside of him. He wants to be small and nonspecific and impossible to pinpoint. A part of a whole. Maybe it should’ve been the Corruption that chose him, he thinks wildly, maybe it should’ve taken him and made him into a hive. This desire for being a part of a whole. He wants it, suddenly, desperately. He wants to put himself into Martin’s body. Make himself into small little pieces and scatter them everywhere. He wants to be carried and contained and separated and brought together safely.

–

(Martin on top of him, Jon holding onto the front of his shirt with both hands, grabbing fabric in his fists, as much as he can fit. And surely he’s going to die if he lets go, if Martin gets up, if this pressure ever dissipates, if it ever lightens, if he’s ever released and left, and he always forgets to blink these days and Martin gently, gently guides his eyelids closed and kisses over them, again and again and again and again and it doesn’t _do_ anything, not really, but it’s safe and comforting and it’s Martin and –)

–

He owes this to Melanie, in case it happens to her as well. In case she wakes up and finds herself tied to the Institute again.

She doesn’t respond to his text. He wasn’t expecting anything else.

–

He goes out. Jon thinks, _I can resist it. I can still have my life back._

Martin goes to work and Jon wanders around and gets coffee or just walks around. He thinks _it’s fine. It’s fine_. He pushes the voices of Knowledge out as well as he can. He doesn’t want to be told anything. He doesn’t want it.

And then – there’s the old man. He met Peter Lukas, years and years and years ago, and he’s heavy and ripe with the weight of it, and Jon’s legs don’t ask for permission, and he comes to himself hours later, head buzzing and full and happy and sated, and he doesn’t know where he is, but he _Knows_ , and he finds his way home. 

(He has to stop to throw up. He’s painfully aware of how it must look – throwing up into a trash can in broad daylight, staggering down the street.)

He thinks _maybe it was just this once. Maybe next time he can hold himself back_. Fox the Colonel jumps onto the bed and settles on his chest. That’s what breaks him. Strange, the things that break him these days. He’s a monster and his cat is trying to comfort him. 

It’s just – he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve any of it. 

Martin. His cat. This house. This bed, the barely frozen ground of the garden, the daylight outside, the sun on his skin coming in through the bedroom window. The ugly built in wardrobe. He doesn’t deserve it. 

He cries until he can’t breathe, and then he remembers he doesn’t _have_ to breathe, and then he cries harder, the cat bouncing on his chest, purring becoming gradually more distressed until she eventually gets up, walks across his chest and starts licking his face. He wants to break something. He wants to break himself. He wants to be broken. He doesn’t know what there’s left to do anymore.

–

Martin comes home from work and finds him on the couch, Fox the Colonel curled up in his lap. He’s got a blanket draped over his knees. The cat’s got her claws out, kneading the blanket, claws touching his legs every now and then, catching on the fabric of his jeans.

“Hey,” says Martin. 

“Hey,” says Jon. He doesn’t turn his head to face him. No point. He feels empty and hollow and dirty and ruined.

Martin comes to sit next to him on the couch. Fox chirps at him, gets up from Jon’s lap and jumps onto the floor. Jon Knows she stretches, languidly, unhurriedly, spine and legs and tail and all. He doesn’t want to Know. He’d love to know what his cat looks like. He doesn’t want to Know it. Martin takes him by the shoulders and guides him down gently, until he’s got his head in Martin’s lap. 

“Bad day?” he asks softly. 

He doesn’t know how to tell Martin. He doesn’t know how to let him down again. He doesn’t know how to be so viscerally aware of his fear again. Unwavering loyalty in the face of fear, in the face of his undeniable monstrosity, in the face of what he is, what kind of a not-person he is. He lets out a wavering sigh. 

“Yeah,” he says. That’s enough. That’s all he can manage. 

Martin puts his fingers in Jon’s hair. Jon tries to not think.

–

Georgie and Melanie stop texting them back. Jon tries calling. Georgie picks up and says “Jon,” in a tired, sad voice, and Jon Knows.

He can’t blame her, exactly, but there’s a thing inside of him about it. An angry, desperate, desolate thing. He feels like he’s been abandoned. Betrayed.

–

It happens again. And again. And again. And again.

A woman with a baby. An old man in a McDonald’s. A young man in an ill-fitting suit (and he hates that he Knows that – he didn’t want to –). A young nurse. An old woman sitting on a park bench. A businesswoman with a bag that’d made a loud clattering noise when she’d dropped it after Jon’d been done with her. 

Jon loses count. He loses himself. He cries and throws up and it never gets better and eventually he has to tell Martin, eventually he has to beg him to leash him again, to take a metaphorical length of rope or a long nylon leash and wrap it around his neck, tight, to tug on it every few hours to make sure he’s still on the other end. 

So Martin tells him no. He shouldn’t have to. He comes home and Jon’s hungry, he’s been home all day, he’s hungry and afraid and wild and he feels untameable and broken, and he says no. No. No. No, until it sticks, until Jon cries with anger and desperation and disappointment and relief. How sad that he has to beg him to tell him no. How sad that he has to be told no to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone.

Martin pretends he’s not afraid. Like he’s not angry. Jon feels and Knows and understands. Martin tries and realizes that he can’t lie and feels angry and sad and Jon starts crying and he thinks, _I don’t deserve comfort_ because he doesn’t but Martin climbs on top of him and holds him down until he stops crying. 

They lie on the bed or the couch or the floor together, after, facing each other, noses touching, and if Jon focuses hard enough he thinks he can feel Martin’s eyelashes against his own cheeks. He wants to be even closer to him. He wants to be inside of his skin. He wants them inseparable, existing in the same body, together, too close to cut apart. He wants to be a part of his body, to exist in the seams and the empty spaces and the soft parts, he wants so desperately to be outside of himself, this casket of a body, he _wants,_ he _wants_ , he _wants_ –

–

He sits by the window a lot, these days. He can’t let himself leave the house. He’s learning, finally, that no matter how hard he tries he can’t control himself around people.

Martin fusses over him, brings him tea, makes him eat. Jon refuses the food but drinks the tea. No reason to eat anymore. The tea at least is comforting. Familiar. He drinks it and thinks about the Archives. Those dusty days sat in the dim light of his office, talking into a tape recorder, pushing aside any attempt at human connection. These claustrophobic memories of impending doom. These memories of dead friends. These memories of dead not-quite friends. He thinks about Tim, sometimes. He tries not to think about Sasha.

“I could’ve looked at you longer,” Jon says, softly, in Martin’s arms on the couch. “I could’ve been looking at you this whole time.”

He doesn’t know if Martin’s crying. He doesn’t want to know. He refuses to Know. He could Know all of these things – Martin’s eyelashes on his cheeks while he’s asleep, his twitching fingers. His smile. His hair. He wonders if it’s still the same color it was when he last saw it. Has it started going gray, like his has? Has this aged him prematurely the way it has him? 

He doesn’t want to. It’s not the same. It never was. It never will be.

–

And Martin says “it was okay for so long it was worth it wasn’t it worth it we had so much time it was so good and it’s still good we just need to hold on and maybe it’ll go away again” and Jon keeps repeating “maybe. Maybe.”

It’s not going to be – he Knows it’s not going to be okay. Something is coming. Something is coming and he Knows something is coming and he knows something is coming and it won’t be okay, it will never be okay again, and they had all this time, sure, but he thinks, shouldn’t they have just killed him? When they had the chance? Is this not worse, this false hope? These months they had? 

But Martin won’t let him say that and Jon doesn’t want to say it, even though he Knows all this, even though he knows with a horrible, suffocating certainty that they’d made a horrible mistake, that he should be dead, that he should have died months ago, if he’d ever been serious about doing anything for the greater good. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to know it. He doesn’t want to Know it, and he doesn’t want Martin to know it. 

He’s a horrible liar and Martin is a better liar but it doesn’t matter because Jon still _Knows_ when he’s lying and Martin knows when he’s lying as well, he just knows him too well, and they both know they don’t believe in this, but he says it anyway, says “maybe. Maybe” into Martin’s neck and Martin pretends he doesn’t know that Jon doesn’t mean it and Jon pretends he can’t tell Martin’s crying.

–

“Kill me,” says Jon. “Please.”

Martin makes a choked off noise like he’s about to burst into tears. “No,” he says, furiously, “no. Don’t you dare.”

Jon briefly thinks about making him do it. He doesn’t know how he would do it. He doesn’t think he could do that. More of a Web thing to do. He could put anger and hatred into his head, he guesses. He could give him the knowledge of what this means. He could make him feel it and nudge him in the right direction. 

“Before it’s too late,” Jon says. It comes out quiet and desperate. “Before you can’t.”

Martin takes his hands into his and kisses them for what feels like ages. Ten seconds. Twenty. Holding his hands to his mouth, thin skin warm against Jon’s cold fingers, feeling the bones through the skin, feeling the twitch and shiver of them. 

“No,” he says against them. “No. I don’t care. I’m not going to.”

Jon wishes he could cry. He could, but he can’t. Physical versus emotional. All these roadblocks. All these separations from the humanity he’d thought he’d gotten back. The cheating and stealing turned against him again like a natural consequence to his actions. Funny. Funny. Funny. 

Martin starts crying. Jon moves his hands so that he can cup Martin’s face in them. His tears are so warm and slick against his hands and he wishes so badly he would just do it. He wishes so badly he would just get over with it. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to take this. How much longer he can take this.

–

Maybe Martin should quit his job. They can’t afford for that to happen, of course, but he thinks, maybe he should quit. He wants to. He doesn’t trust Jon. He knows it.

It’s fair. It hurts all the same.

–

Martin clicks on the lights when he enters the bathroom.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What are you doing?”

Jon shrugs. He’s sitting in the tub. His clothes are sticking to his skin. It’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t care. “I don’t know,” he says weakly.

Martin dips a finger in the water. “Cold,” he says, “what are you doing in there?”

Jon doesn’t think he could explain this if he tried. There’s no real reason. It’s just something he might as well do. Sit in a tub full of cold water still fully clothed. He might be dissociating. He can’t be sure.

Martin undresses, shirt and trousers falling onto the floor, socks dropping somewhere else, a different spot on the tile floor. There’s a stream of questioning meowing coming from the hallway and Martin calls out to the cat, “you’re okay, Fox.”

Jon blinks, consciously, on purpose. He wonders how weird it is to Martin when he doesn’t. Martin climbs into the tub behind him, hands gently pushing on his back until he moves forward, knees folding against his chest, and there’s a memory of knees knocking against hard plastic in Martin’s car that he won’t think about, and then Martin is sitting down, hissing out a long, continuous sound. Jon feels numb.

“I missed you,” Martin says against his shoulder. He kisses him there, just once. His voice is strained, trying to get used to the cold of the water.

“Missed you,” Jon echoes. He’s so numb. 

They sit like that for a long time. Neither of them says anything. Jon doesn’t know if it’s good or bad. It just is. He breathes on purpose. He blinks on purpose. He exists here, in this tub, in Martin’s arms, in this bathroom, on purpose.

–

When the tape comes in the mail he _knows_ he should tell Martin. He knows. He knows. He knows.

–

And he absolutely should not listen to it. He doesn’t even have a tape player. He doesn’t. He swears he doesn’t, no matter how insistently the voice in his head keeps pointing him to a drawer of the console table they’ve put their TV on.

–

He’s so _hungry_ –

–

Elias’ voice is smooth and silky and compelling and wrong, wrong, it’s wrong, and he can’t turn it off. He knows he shouldn’t have done this. He can’t stop. He can’t stop.

Martin comes home from work. He’s lying on the floor, breathing hard, eyes wide open. He can’t see. He Sees Martin. He wishes he couldn’t. 

He’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful. The sky outside is green and red and it illuminates him from behind, and Jon feels like he’s filled to the brim with grief and regret and sweet, merciful _release_ , something beautiful and wonderful and scary and _horrifying_ about to happen. Already happening. The shiny, beautiful, horrible sky. 

“Jon,” Martin breathes out, “what’d you do?” He sounds terrified. He sounds like he’s so far away.

“I don’t know,” Jon says, and he’s crying and laughing at the same time, “I don’t know. Martin, what’d I do –”

But he knows. He knows. They’re all here. They’re _all_ here, and it’s his fault, it’s his fault, and Elias – Jonah – had planned all this all along and it wasn’t a mistake and they didn’t get this all by accident and he can’t –

Fox meows. It’s the same desperate, sad sound he’d heard through the window. 

Jon wonders for a wild, desperate second what’s going to happen to the cat. If someone will take care of her. If someone will take care of Martin, after he dies.

–

(“I want to –” Martin at the cabin. Martin in his tall wellies, old and yellow. Martin looking over the overgrown grass and the dying apple trees with a disapproving look on his face. Thinking about how to save all of these plants, all of this life that Daisy didn’t bother with, all of these plants and flowers and trees and bushes. “I want to do something with all of this,” he says, gesturing with both hands at the general state of the surrounding vegetation.

“Stay –” Martin holding Jon’s head in his hands. Big hands. Warm hands. Safe hands. Water in his eyes. He wants so badly to struggle, move his head away. It burns. It hurts. The pressure is so much. He feels oversensitive and raw. Skinned. “You have to stay still. I know. I know,” Martin says quietly. “This is important, I know it hurts, I’m sorry.” Jon doesn’t cry. He doesn’t cry. “I know,” Jon exhales, “I know I know I know I know I know.”

“– just… Like this.” Martin holding his wrist, gentle, both hands, showing him how to hold his hand so he can spin him. “Just let yourself be moved. Trust me.” Jon always does. He always trusts him. On purpose. On purpose he trusts him. 

“Just us.” Jon turns to face Martin, making a questioning noise. “Isn’t it nice? Just, just the two of us.” Jon nestles in closer. He can feel Martin’s heart beat through his chest, over his sweater. He wants to burrow inside it, put his head between his skin and his shirt. Fox meows from the floor, as if she noticed being excluded, and Martin laughs, “the three of us. My apologies, princess.” Jon grumbles. “That’s _Colonel_ Fox to you,” he corrects, and Martin laughs, beautiful and unafraid and sweet.

“Forever?” Martin lying on the bed. Jon feeling his way to him, his knees and his shins and his hips and his ribs and neck, jaw, his beard and his nose, his beautiful eyes, soft hair, Jon feeling him inch by inch, remembering, remembering, mapping out new memories. “Forever,” Jon says. “That’s a long time,” Martin says. Jon doesn’t say anything. They’re tipsy, but not too tipsy. He means it.)

“Jon?”

“Yeah,” Jon croaks out. “Just us. Just us. I want that. I want it so badly.”

Outside the wind picks up and pummels against the door like huge fists. 

Jon closes his eyes and thinks about orange scented kitchen surface cleaner spray. It doesn’t matter anymore. He wishes it did.

**Author's Note:**

> immmm on tumblr at [blqckwoods!](http://www.blqckwoods.tumblr.com)


End file.
